


Beg Me

by Aerecurie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Rough Sex, Sensuality, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerecurie/pseuds/Aerecurie
Summary: "He wraps his arms around her waist and rests his head on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of lilac and gooseberries. He can feel the heat of her. 'Don't try anything,' Yennefer says, but there's teasing in her voice, and a slight wobble, too." Geralt and Yennefer always have trouble keeping their hands off each other, and their Skellige reunion is no different.





	1. Chase Me

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: After I finished The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt, I couldn't believe there wasn't more M-rated fanfiction about Yen and Geralt. So that's what this is.
> 
> If you don't like reading about fictional characters boning, kindly hit the back button. This is my first story with explicit sex, and I intend for it to get steamy. Also my first story posted here! It's cross-posted on Fanfiction.net, and I'll be updating in both places when I have the next bit.
> 
> 'Beg Me' gives a bit more of a, hmm...satisfying look at what happens when Geralt finally sees Yennefer at King Bran's wake. The story skips through some of the scenes at the wake before landing at the inn. I've probably gotten some little lore details wrong; feel free to correct me, but I don't care that much.

Seeing Yennefer after a long time always feels like a shock to Geralt. They've left each other and reunited many times, but even a glimpse of her dark hair and her intelligent, piercing gaze are always sharper than any memory.

She must know he's walking up the pier at Kaer Trolde, into the crowd of mourners, but she doesn't turn around. He enjoys the sight of her in profile: head raised to listen to the speeches, exposing her long neck. Attentive, calculating, measuring the air around her. A keen observer, Yen is. Like him.

Yennefer fiddles with the charm at her neck, and his eyes are drawn to the triangle of pale skin at her neckline. She's dressed elegantly, in dark velvets and furs. Though Geralt knows he should pay attention to the eulogy for King Bran, he can't focus on anything but Yennefer.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs as he sidles up next to her.

She looks at him and smiles, just a hair. "Thank you."

If she were a different woman, her still face would make Geralt doubt that she meant those words. But he sees her shoulders relax, and she sways ever so slightly closer to him.

"It's good to see you again," she adds after a moment, and then he smiles just a bit, too.

* * *

The feast hall at Kaer Trolde echoes with the sounds of drinking and eating. Men and women toast to Bran's legacy, and musicians fill the hall with a rhythmic din. Geralt can hardly hear the sons of the jarls as they boast across the table.

Next to him, Yennefer can barely keep from rolling her eyes. Out of instinct, he places a hand on her knee. It's just meant to calm her, but it's the first time he's touched her in months, and he sighs at the feeling of her.

She glances at him, one brow raised as if to say,  _Here?,_  then slides her hand down to cover his.

* * *

As they search the halls outside Ermion's quarters, Geralt lets his gaze wander to Yennefer's lips. No one else has lips like her, he decides. They're full, and usually parted just a hair, as if she's about to say something. To cast a spell, maybe, or cut someone to ribbons with her tongue.

He wouldn't mind if she cut him with that tongue of hers. He's thought about it plenty since they met again six months ago, and the reality of her just a few feet from him makes those thoughts bubble to the surface of his mind.

"Someone's coming," she says, startling him. "Footsteps. The guards." She's right. Damn it. He should have noticed. "Behind the tapestry."

"The tapestry, Yen? Really? Are we in one of Dandelion's plays?" he mutters, but she's already dragging him behind it. The tapestry is long and heavy, with an alcove large enough to hide them both.

Which is good, since he's so close to her now that he wouldn't be able to think through finding a hiding spot on his own.

"Aren't you lucky I'm here, then?" she whispers, and Geralt realizes that she's been reading his mind. He wraps his arms around her waist and rests his head on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of lilac and gooseberries. He can feel the heat of her.

"Don't try anything," Yennefer says, but there's teasing in her voice, and a slight wobble, too. He's not the only distracted one.

"Nothing you wouldn't like."

And then they're both quiet as the clanking of the guards' armor fills the room.

He draws his hands along the lines of her body, slowly, so as not to disturb the tapestry. His fingers feel out the black velvet of her overdress and the silk of her shift. There are her hips, which curve delicately into her waist; there are her ribs; there is the hammer of her heart, which thrums beneath her skin; there are her breasts.

If they actually  _were_  in one of Dandelion's plays, he would deliver a soliloquy on how perfect he finds her breasts.

As it is, he contents himself with the hitches in her breath as he presses her even closer to him. His hands wander to her face, to the lips he was admiring earlier. She kisses the pads of his fingers, then draws one into her mouth and sucks. Yen knows that makes him weak in the knees. His body fills with fire as he images her mouth on –

She turns suddenly, bites him hard on the lip, and then brushes the tapestry aside. The guards are long gone, Geralt realizes. Yennefer's breath is unsteady as she says, "Come, then. We've no time to lose."

"Surely we can spare five minutes." The heat in his groin makes it impossible to think of anything else but his hands on her hips again, this time with no dress in the way.

"You make a compelling argument, witcher. We can spare five minutes…" Yennefer brushes a finger across his lips. " _Later_."

"That a promise?"

"Let's say it's conditional," she says, raising one eyebrow, "on whether you work hard enough to deserve it."

* * *

They've made a mistake, Geralt realizes as soon as the golem collapses on the floor of Ermion's chambers. The gas that fills the room smells of sulfur and earth _. Damn it all_ , he thinks. If he'd been concentrating harder, he might have noticed that Ermion placed a second trap.

Yennefer clutches the Mask of Uroboros so tightly that her knuckles go white, and she whirls around to look at Geralt. "Is there anything you can-"

"No." Geralt doesn't recognize this scent, and even if his antidotes protected him from the poison, they'd kill Yennefer. "Teleport us out of here."

She pushes the mask into his hands and draws a circle in the air in front of them. "I know this isn't ideal," Yennefer grits out, "but think of something – the first good thing that comes to mind – and using the portal won't be so bad-"

Instead of thinking about how much he detests portals, Geralt thinks about kissing her, her mouth open to his. He imagines the feel of her lips as they move from his mouth to his neck. He imagines her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, closer, until he gives himself over entirely.

There is a flash, then sudden heat on his skin, and they're gone.

* * *

The cold stone of the inn floor calms Geralt's spinning head. The scent of lilac and gooseberries deepens, and now he can detect other scents: wine, old books, soap. They're in Yennefer's rooms.

He sits up, then closes his eyes for a moment, letting the nausea and dizziness fade away. He opens them again when he feels Yennefer's hand on his temple. She is on her knees in front of him, and she is stroking his hair, lightly, calmly, without saying anything. He leans into her touch like a cat. The mask of Uroboros lies a few feet away, he notices, relieved.

"Are you all right?" she says after a minute.

"I'll be fine. You?"

"I've ripped my dress. But I'll live, I think."

"Your dress? That's serious." He catches her hand and presses his lips to it. Yennefer would rather go naked than wear clothing not up to her standards. Once, he remembers, she hurled an entire trunk off an inn balcony after she discovered that moths had gotten to her underclothes.

"Oh, hush." She pauses. "Well? Are you going to kiss me or not?"

"So you heard that thought, then."

"I would wager a guess," she says, leaning forward, "that anyone in Kaer Trolde with magical abilities heard it."

Geralt glances at her dress, which is torn along a seam. Underneath are her stockings, then the bare skin of her thigh. He slides his hand up her leg until he reaches that skin, which still tingles with the dissipating magic of the portal she summoned. "What do you think?" he asks. "Have I earned my five minutes?"

"You've earned one, at least." Her eyes don't leave his.

He pulls her into his lap, ripped dress and all, and kisses her hard. She moans lightly and opens her mouth under his, and then she is on him, her mouth rough and demanding. She bites his lip again, in the same place she bit it before, but instead of letting her get away this time he tightens his grip on her waist and bites her back. She gasps, and he soothes her lips with his tongue.

"Do I get the other four minutes?" Geralt asks.

"Mmm. Yes." Yennefer slips a hand under his rough, Skellige-style doublet and runs her fingers up his chest. "That was even better than I'd envisioned."

"You thought about this?"

"Of course I did." She smiles. "Perhaps not as much as you."

"You'll have to fill me in on those thoughts," he says, and nips at her neck.

"They are  _private_."

"But you listen in on my thoughts all the time. See-" He imagines her riding him on the enormous bed in the next room, exultant as she takes her pleasure from him, and the image makes him burn. "What was I thinking of just now?"

"About something that would please me as much as it clearly pleases you." She brushes her other hand across his trousers and smirks. "But first things first. I must attend to my dress."

"You've taken up sewing?"

"Are you mad? I've an enchanted needle."

He shakes his head, stands up, and follows her into her bedchamber.

At this point, the luxury Yennefer manages to find for herself, even in places like Skellige, no longer surprises him. Fur rugs cover the floor, and two full-breasted sirens carved of wood hold up the mirror on her dressing table. When she sits in front of it and reaches for the buttons on the back of her dress, he pushes her hand away. "Let me," he says, and runs his tongue along her earlobe. He watches her reflection shiver with desire.

"If you pop a single button-"

He pops all five of them with a single tug.

" _Geralt of Rivia."_

"You have an enchanted needle, remember?" The black velvet of her dress pools around her waist. He unhooks her thin corset and admires the curve of her pale breasts, the sudden flush of her nipples, in the candlelit glow.

"I will make you regret the day you first saw me," Yennefer says, and pulls his hands onto her breasts. He groans as he cups them, then rubs his thumbs over her nipples. They harden at his touch. "I will make you beg-" she gasps – "for my forgiveness."

"Make me beg, then."

"Oh," she says, her voice throaty, "I intend to."


	2. Catch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is straight Geralt/Yennefer smut...with some cutesiness thrown in for good measure.

Geralt shucks the dress off Yennefer’s body, leaving her in just boots, stockings, and a filmy strip of fabric that barely counts as underclothes. She lowers herself back into the chair so gracefully that she could be a queen sitting in her throne. “You said you wanted to know what I thought about, late at night?” she says. “When I became distracted from my research?”

“Yes,” he says. He pulls the doublet over his head and tosses it to the floor, along with his medallion, then comes to stand behind her chair. Their reflections gaze back from the dressing table mirror.

“Sometimes a passage from my books would remind me of you. Something you’d perhaps say or do. Then I would imagine what it might feel like to have your mouth on me.”

He kisses her ear. His breath is coming fast in his throat. One of Yennefer’s best qualities is her boldness, and she is just as forward in bed as anywhere else. At times she directs him like a marionette, and he likes the feel of the strings. “Where?”

“My breasts, to start with.”

Geralt kneels before her and teases the tip of one breast with his tongue. Her breath hitches as he grazes the sensitive flesh with his teeth. “Like this?” he says.

“Yes,” she whispers, “much like that.”

His head spins again, though this time it has nothing to do with the portal. His life is so full of hardness and grit – the iron and silver of his swords, the dirt and rain of the roads he travels – that her body draws him like a lamia’s song draws a sailor. Yennefer's skin is as smooth as her demeanor is sharp, and he could trace his lips over her for hours. He has, in fact, many times over many years, but each time they come together he discovers another sliver of her. Another secret.

His hands trace along her hipbones, then find their way to her underclothes. The fabric is wet to the touch, and he sucks in a breath as he slips a finger underneath, teasing her. “What else did you think about?”

Yennefer lifts his chin, and their eyes meet. “I would imagine your lips trailing downwards,” she says, as evenly as she can, “and then I would imagine you using that stoic mouth of yours to make me come until I could hardly stand.” Yennefer inhales, tensing her body for a moment, and her underclothes disappear with a slight crackle of magic. “Well?”

A shockwave of desire tears through his body. His lips graze her abdomen and her hips, and his fingers ghost over her clit. Then he eases away, tracing a pattern along her inner thighs instead of giving her what she wants.

She moans, twining her hands in his hair. He can feel the sharpness of her nails, and he likes it, the pain mixed with the pleasure of teasing her. “Geralt,” she says.

“Say ‘please.’”

“Oh, no. That’s _my_ game,” she tells him, but a slow smile is spreading across her face.

“Beg me.”

“You’re an egomaniac.”

“I’ll let you do whatever you want in a minute.”

Her hand snakes down between her legs as she tries to please herself, but he seizes her hand in his own and pulls her out of the chair. “Yen,” he says, “I have spent months in a war zone, then a city ruled by a madman, then a boat that Skelligan marauders attacked and sunk. I thought about being with you, and fucking you, and lying next to you, the entire time. And you thought about me.” Geralt pins her to the wall. She’s still wearing her boots and stockings, but her head barely comes to his chin. He’d forgotten how short she is, how much cold fire she keeps in such a small frame. “So tell me how much you want this.”

“That was almost poetic. Until you said ‘fuck.’” He grabs her ass with both hands. “ _Oh_.”

“I’m not a poet,” he says, kneeling in front of her again, “but I can do a few things with my tongue.” His lips touch her core, just briefly. “So?”

“Mm. I want you to…” She trails off as he dips a finger inside her, then removes it.

“Want me to what?”

She lets out a cry. “Please,” she says, “please. Touch me.”

Geralt doesn’t hesitate. He covers her clit with his tongue, and she bucks her hips, grinding herself against his mouth. He’s so hard he wants only one thing more than burying his cock inside her, and that is her satisfaction. He wants the wide ‘O’ of her mouth as she orgasms. He wants the sting of her nails buried in his back. He wants everything he can remember about her body and its passions.

“Then put a finger back inside me,” Yennefer gasps. She’s reading his mind again. He does what she asks, tantalizing her with both fingers and tongue.

“Another,” she says.

He moves his fingers in the same rhythm as his mouth, touching her faster, and faster, and faster. The taste of her, and the sound of her ragged breathing, drives him wild. When she comes he can feel it in her body’s sudden slackness. She moans, deep and soft, like an animal’s muted cry in the night.

He stands and runs his hands up her body, holding her against the wall. He keeps her upright as aftershocks of pleasure run through her. Geralt’s mouth is slick with her but she kisses him anyway, biting and sucking with abandon, tasting herself on his lips.

“So you haven’t forgotten how to please me,” she says when she can speak again.

“Of course not.”

Geralt had been with women – many women – before he met Yen, but she was the first who made him study her body until he could map her desires across her skin. On lazy afternoons she would spend hours instructing him where she wanted to be touched, and how. With other women, sex meant letting off steam. With Yen, it meant exploration.

“Good,” Yennefer says. “Allow me to return the favor.”

“Go ahead,” he says, and nibbles at her neck. Then he notices that her eyes are fixed on something across the room. Geralt turns, and there it is, impossibly: the stuffed unicorn. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it earlier. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

He can’t keep a grin from creeping across his face. “How did you even get it to Skellige?”

She kisses his shoulder. “I keep many secrets, Geralt, and some of them I shall not reveal even to you.”

“On second thought, I don’t want to know. Plough the unicorn.”

“That is filthy.” Her gaze turns again from tender to fierce. “But I will plough you _on_ the unicorn.” Her hands rip at his belt buckle, and his breath catches in his throat as she finally touches him.

“Yen,” he says, “slow down. I still have my boots on.”

She shoves him playfully. “Then take them off. Quickly, now.”

“Is that a command?” he says as he unlaces his boots and tugs them off. Geralt is an agile man, but he always feels clumsy next to Yen’s poise.

“Yes. You said I could do whatever I wanted ‘in a minute.’ It has been more than a minute, so now you will do exactly what I want.” She turns around, reaches for a brush and pot on her dressing table, and concentrates on her reflection as she applies another coat of lipstick.

“Really?”

“I’ve envisioned how this moment will go, remember? And in this moment, I will look perfect.” He stifles _But you always look perfect_ as he drops his breeches. “Now.” She takes the few steps back to him and presses her body against his. Her hands trace down to his hips, and then his undershorts hit the floor. “Astride the unicorn, please.”

Making love atop a stuffed unicorn of questionable structural integrity isn’t something Geralt prefers. But his cock is now so hard that he would do anything to bury himself in the slickness he felt just moments ago. He heaves himself onto the unicorn’s back, facing its rump, and extends a hand to Yen.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Hands behind you.”

He places his hands behind his head. As soon as his fingers touch, something coils around them: magic bonds. “You could just use a rope, you know,” he says.

“Ah, but I’m terrible with real knots.” She leaps onto the unicorn, crawling forward until their knees touch. “Now I shall have my way with you.”

Geralt tries and fails to say something witty as her lips meet the scarred skin at the base of his neck. She kisses her way down his chest, and though each kiss enflames him, it also soothes him. No one knows his body better than Yennefer, and to have her kiss his scars is a kind of homecoming.

She lingers on the pitchfork scars that dot his abdomen. “It’s a good thing you didn’t stay dead, witcher.”

“I agree,” he says, panting.

“Because if you were…” She flicks her tongue over the head of his cock.

Geralt moans. “ _Yen_.”

“…I wouldn’t be able to do this.” She slides her lips down the length of him, then back, sucking and licking as she goes. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat, and he lets his head fall back. His hair is loose on the unicorn’s mane, white on white, and Yen’s black curls move rhythmically in his lap. He fists his hands in knots of her hair, but she withdraws, leaving him gasping.

“What do I have to do to get you to keep going?” he bites out.

“Return the favor, that’s all.” She pulls herself closer and teases his cock with her slit. “Tell me what you thought of, all those nights on the road.”

Geralt scrambles to pull his thoughts together. “I imagined what it felt like to love you,” he says after a moment. “How warm you are. And wet.”

Yen lowers herself onto him, and they both cry out as they come together at last. “And?” she says. Her stormy eyes darken with pleasure as she moves, slow enough to torment him.

“I thought about taking you so deep and hard you screamed.”

She quirks an eyebrow and begins to move faster. As she rocks back and forth, she reaches down to touch herself. The sight of her magnificent body writhing on top of him, taking everything she wants, is almost too much for him to bear.

“Yen,” he says, “Yen, please-”

“Beg me.”

He manages a smile even as he feels he might split apart. “You haven’t-” he gasps – “changed at all-”

“Beg me, Geralt.” She places her other hand over his throat, choking him lightly.

“I’m begging you.”

Her nails dig into his skin, and he meets each of her thrusts with his own. Their rhythm speeds up until she is screaming, wild and throaty, and seeing her orgasm again is too much for him to bear. He comes hard and long, riding out wave after wave of feeling as she collapses onto his chest.

When he comes back to himself, he can move his hands again, and he cradles Yen against him. Their skin is damp with sweat.

“My, oh my,” she says after a bit. Her voice is muffled. “Why do we ever travel separately?”

“Well, we forgot that the other existed for a while, and then we-”

A small hand smacks his chest. “That was rhetorical, my darling fool.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Not fool enough to keep me from seducing you again.”

“ _I_ seduced _you_.” She sits up and places her finger against his lips. “Not one more word.” She slides off the unicorn and dips a cloth in her washbasin.

“I’ll risk it,” Geralt says as she dabs at her face. Though her lipstick should cover her from ear to ear, it’s hardly moved. _Sorceresses_ , he thinks, and tries not to roll his eyes. “It’s good to be with you again, Yen. In every way.”

She stops. “Do you really mean that? After…” _After Triss,_ is what she wants to say, and both of them know it.

“Yes. I do.” Her eyes still look shuttered, so he follows her to the washbasin and takes the cloth from her hand. “If I had a crown for every time I wished I could be with you these past few months, to talk to, and joke with, and touch, I could have sailed to Skellige with a merchant’s fleet.” Geralt wipes each trickle of sweat from her shoulders. They’re still uneven, he notices, and he kisses them.

Yennefer looks at him tenderly. “A fleet would have been excessive. Even for you.”

“Even for me,” he agrees.

They towel each other off in contented silence. Geralt tugs his breeches back on, and Yen selects another dress from her cavernous trunk. “They’ll be scandalized when they notice I’ve changed,” she mutters.

“They’re all probably too drunk to care.”

“Hmm. One of the only perks of this cursed place.” She draws her hands through the air, which shimmers in front of her. “Now, just a moment and we’ll be right back at Kaer-”

“Yen. No more portals tonight. For me, at least.” She huffs. “You go ahead. I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, but she wraps her arms around him and presses one last kiss to his throat before she disappears in a golden flash.

Geralt of Rivia is not a man who whistles. But, he thinks as he strolls out of the deserted inn, he would right now if he could.

* * *

EPILOGUE

“I came at a good time, it seems,” Geralt tells Yen as she pores through her books. The late afternoon light streams through the inn windows, and her long lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

“You call a king’s funeral good timing?”

“At least I got to meet all the jarls and their children this way.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Yennefer stands and stretches. “I’ll be back in a moment. I need a glass of apple juice.”

“I’ll get it,” Geralt offers.

“No, no. I need to stretch my legs.” She hurries out of the room before he can say anything else. Geralt shrugs and busies himself with his potions and oils.

A few minutes pass, and Yen doesn’t return. Concerned now, he heads for the door. It’s locked.

“Yen?” Geralt says. He tries the knob, but it doesn’t move. Magic, he realizes. Yen’s magic. “What are you playing at?”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice,” says her muffled voice. “Look to your right. You see my chair?”

He turns to the right and sees an elaborately carved wooden chair. Yennefer’s dress from last night is draped over it, and the five buttons he ripped off rest on the chair in a neat line. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I left you my enchanted needle,” she calls.

“But I don’t know how to work that enchantment.” Geralt reaches for the needle lying on Yen’s desk. “Let me out.”

“Certainly. When the buttons are back on my dress.”

Geralt tries one last time. “Yen,” he says, “I’ll never do it again. Your buttons are sacred from this day onward. I adore you, and-”

“And I adore that dress.”

Geralt isn’t sure, but he could swear he hears muffled laughter on the other side of the door.

He half-smiles, half-groans, and picks up the needle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's how Geralt learned to become a tailor! What a man of many talents :P
> 
> Like I said, this is my first explicit piece, and I loved writing it, but I'm sure there's more I can do. Tips? Requests? Ideas? You know what to do!


End file.
